


Birthday

by Antosha



Series: Birthday Chronicles [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Malfoy Manor, Multi, Obstetrics, Pansy the Accidental Midwife, Past Relationship(s), Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antosha/pseuds/Antosha
Summary: Pansy needs to ask Luna about something, but Luna's focus seems to be elsewhere. (Pre-DH canon, though written post-DH.)
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Series: Birthday Chronicles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736818
Kudos: 9





	Birthday

Pansy nearly spat an entire mouthful of hot coffee all over her morning robe when she felt Daphne’s big toe sliding deftly up the inside of her thigh. Once she’d finally managed to swallow, she coughed, “Bloody hell, Greengrass!” It would have been a shame: the coffee was excellent as always—dark and just bitter enough. Like Pansy herself.

Daphne looked unrepentant. Her silk peignoir exposed most of one breast, revealing several nibble marks that Pansy had no memory of leaving. “Could be like this every morning,” she said, grinning evilly, her toe now tickling very close… With two fingers she gestured lazily around them at the flowers, the beautiful spring morning. “Sex in the garden. Sex in the library. Sex in the front hall. Old Narcissa’d have had a bloody cow.” The two fingers dipped beneath the silk and pinched one of Daphne’s nipples; the other one swelled in sympathy, and, in sympathy, Pansy felt her own less spectacular nipples tighten on her own far less ache-inducing breasts. Daphne’s toe slid....

Gritting her teeth against the pull of it, the pleasure that was gushing up in response to Daphne’s physical and verbal seduction, Pansy muttered. “Not her house any more. Nor mine.” She gripped Daphne’s ankle hard to keep her from sending Pansy quite over the edge. Daphne was far too good at that. “Lovegood’s house. Can’t just let you move in.”

“So _ask her_ ,” Daphne whinged. Much to Pansy’s disappointment, she withdrew her toe; much to Pansy’s surprise and delight, she knelt between Pansy and the small glass garden table where the elves had brought the breakfast, as always served on thick Malfoy bone china… Daphne’s hands slid under Pansy’s robe, undeniable. “I want to _be_ with you, Pansy. I want to _live_ with you. Don’t you want that?”

Pansy would have said that it was the feeling of Daphne’s fingers moving across her flesh, of the sun playing on her no-longer-quite-so-desiccated flesh that robbed her of speech, but that would not have been the whole truth. The fact was that the past six months—from her wild birthday, when Lovegood had returned her to life, had told her how her parents had died, had made love to Pansy as no one had ever made love to her, and had offered her the so-called _job_ of living in the home that had been her childhood dream—of being Luna’s chatelaine at Malfoy Manor—to the past nine shocking, joyous, terrifying weeks when Daphne had reentered her life, no longer as a fellow Bitch Queen and rival for the role of Slytherin alpha female, but as a _lover_ , soft, sexy, insatiable as no boy had ever been—for most of that time, Pansy had been waiting for the bubble to burst, for it all to fade away like a pleasant dream. “I… I…”

Daphne kissed her, mouth open and tart with the champagne and orange juice that she’d been sipping; Daphne’s breasts slid against Pansy’s more modest ones and words abandoned Pansy as the cool of Daphne’s tongue and the heat of the sun set her head spinning.

It had never occurred to bitter, lonely Penthesilea Parkinson that such grace could still be hers. Never occurred to her that her life might actually hold the potential for anything vaguely resembling happiness, and yet here it was: a beautiful home, work that was hardly work, doing the very thing she had been raised to do, and a partner…

A _girlfriend._

After Lovegood’s Halloween seduction, Pansy had felt as if everything that she had ever known about herself lay shattered on the five-hundred-year-old carpet around them, a carapace of glass, shed as a snake might shed its old skin. Several of the truths learned that night had been obvious: that Pansy’s parents were indeed awful, but that they had not finally been evil, nor had they been murdered by Harry Potter; that most of what Pansy had thought stood between her and happiness—her Death Eater heritage, her poverty, the loss of what attractiveness she had once thought she had—was in her own mind; and that, appearances aside, Luna Lovegood was a remarkable woman on many levels.

But several revelations came more timidly. One was that the reason that Pansy’s affairs with boys had always failed so spectacularly wasn’t necessarily her own failings as a lover, nor theirs, but rather that—though she had never allowed herself to consider it—she liked girls. Woman. A great deal. She understood them and they understood her, and they made her feel things—body and soul—that no man had ever managed to. When she had chanced to meet Daphne Greengrass wearing an obscenely undersized flapper outfit at the Isle of Lesbos Club on Nocturne Alley, Pansy had already tumbled through a number of liaisons with other women, each more intense then the last, for all that they were aggressively casual. None of them had shaken her to the core quite as Lovegood had done—until Daphne.

_Daphne…_

If you had asked Pansy a year earlier what she thought of the woman who had held court from the four-poster opposite hers through seven years at Hogwarts—the woman whose tongue now sipped at Pansy’s navel—Pansy would have said that she was a round-healed bint with more tits than brains—brains she seldom used, since she thought with her clit anyway.

As Daphne’s fingers teased at Pansy’s own aching clit—as Daphne’s teeth pulled at the dark curls just above—what Pansy now knew to be Daphne’s true nature flashed through what little of her own mind was still operating, flashed like lightning across the blue Wiltshire sky: sensualist, yes, and sensuous, Merlin, yes, with flesh to spare, and hardly given to introspection, it was true, but Daphne was thoughtful after all—a thoughtful lover, absolutely, but also thoughtful about life. Yes. About what constituted happiness.

Happiness. Not a subject on which Pansy would have considered herself an expert and yet happy now, oh, yes, yes—happy with Daphne, happy with the house, happy providing the elves what little human supervision they needed but deeply desired. Happy cataloguing the Malfoys’ extensive and somewhat contraband library. Happy to have shed the ghosts of her parents’ misery, of the wizarding world’s suspicion, of her own past. Happy to live in a present that included dark coffee and champagne and orange juice and sunlight and her feet up on the glass table while Daphne siphoned ecstasy beyond happiness from between Pansy’s legs...

Happiness.

Pansy found herself sobbing with it as Daphne kissed her way up Pansy’s curds-and-wey belly and scrawny chest to Pansy’s thin, hungry lips. “Yes,” she gasped, “I’ll ask her. After. Work. Yes. Merlin. Stay. Merlin. Daphne. Yes. _Please...._ ” And as the flares of light cleared from her eyes and Pansy’s breath returned to her, she pulledher lover’s gown from her shoulders and let it fall to the stones in a shower of silk and lace. “Now get up on this table, bint, because I want my breakfast.”

: :

That evening, as Pansy made her way from the Leaky Cauldron toward wizarding Britain’s oldest and best-known street address, it was with a great deal less certainty and a great deal more anxiety. Yes, she wanted Daphne to stay. Yes, she could see them making a life together. Hell, these days they could even get married, and the thought of that made Pansy giddy, both with the wonderful unlikeliness of it all, and with the pleasure of knowing that it would have filled her parents with abject shame and rage.

The fact of the matter, however, was that the idea asking the Lovegood for permission for Daphne to stay was a bit terrifying. Not terribly, perhaps. But yes—Luna could be... unpredictable at best. At worst, she could be—yes—terrifying. Pansy found herself wondering whether she shouldn’t have sent an owl. But corresponding with Luna could be even more bewildering than speaking with her face to face; her letters frequently shifted into other languages, some of which Pansy believed to be of Luna’s own invention, and they had a tendency to meander quite astonishingly. And of course, as an Unspeakable, Luna wasn’t allowed to operate a public Floo. So face to goggle-eyed face was the only option.

And Daphne...

 _Daphne_.

Daphne, whom Pansy had left reclining, naked, in the conservatory, listening to the Harpies match on the wireless—all lesbians, apparently, were Harpies fans by default.

Her hair in the afternoon sunlight. Her toes….

As Pansy passed Eeylop’s, shehad to stop for a moment as a gooseflesh frisson washed through her. Daphne. Pansy knew that the giddy, glittery glow that she was feeling—that she hoped that they were both feeling—wasn’t going to last forever. She’d read enough books and listened to enough women complaining in the Amatorial Spells and Potions aisle at Flourish and Blotts to know that even with a partner life wasn’t all champagne, orange juice and sex on the veranda.

But the fact of the matter was that when Daphne was around, Pansy liked _herself_ better.Pansy didn’t know much about _love_ —that’s was Loony’s specialty at the Department of Mysteries (or at least, so the Unspeakable gave one to understand). But that—the fact that Pansy was more herself when Daphne was around—certainly felt something like love to her. And so, taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and marched herself towards Ollivander’s and the old Malfoy apartments, currently occupied by their sole heir, Luna Lovegood.

Young Madam Ollivander, the old crone, nodded almost politely at Pansy as she passed before the store’s window. Another thing to be grateful to Lovegood for—the Parkinson name, while hardly honored by those who remembered Voldemort and his followers, was no longer a matter of shame for Pansy, and that had been more of a relief to her than she would have anticipated in the dark days of her internal self-exile. Another debit in the karmic ledger.

Taking a deep breath to unclench her teeth, Pansy opened the heavy oak door and strode up the warn. stone steps of the oldest residence in Britain, wizarding or Muggle.

In her youth, Pansy hadn’t been afraid of anything— _too stupid_ , she thought. Through most of her adult life, she had lost too much to bother being afraid of losing more. But now… Now there were things that Pansy knew enough to know that she couldn’t stand to lose.

As she made her way up the worn, twisting stairs up to the two flats above Ollivanders—the Malfoy flat that Luna now lived in and the one in which the Bonses had famously lived for the past thousand years—as Pansy smelled the dusty age of the place, a memory thrust itself through the back of her brain and into her consciousness: walking up these same stairs behind Lovegood’s swaying, robed hips, pinched, frightened, not knowing the relief, the _pleasure_ that those hips would bring. Astride that rolling, bellied belly, sipping at a lip, at a thick nipple. _Flowing like a long-blocked spring._

Lovegood had made it clear that Pansy was not obligated to repeat that experience, and so they had never _been_ together again, which had been a relief of its own at the time. The revelation of that night—the many revelations: the fate of Pansy’s parents, the truth of Harry Potter’s victory over Voldemort, the feelings that Pansy had managed to ignore so successfully for her whole adult life—had been too much for Pansy to swallow all in one go. And so in the six months since, Pansy had not returned here. The conversations with Luna that she had had had been at Flourish and Blots, or at Malfoy Manor, or, over the past few months through the Floo with Luna’s misty, green head barely blocking the Leaky Cauldron’s uproar. _Eyes that see what can’t be seen..._

Standing on the landing outside of the thick, oak door, Pansy was overcome by a mingled shock of panic and desire.

 _I love Daphne_ , she thought, biting her lip. _I can talk to Daphne. She doesn’t terrify me like the Lovegood does_. _But..._

But Pansy had to admit, in the dark, quiet corner of her soul that wasn’t swamped with lust or terror, that being frightened of Lovegood...

It turned her on.

How pathetic.

She looked up at the door. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand to knock.

“ _AAARGH!_ ”

Pansy stood there, staring at the door in shock. Surely that must have been Lovegood’s bloody raven. Yes. She raised her hand again.

“ _BLOODY HELL! THAT HURTS RATHER A LOT!”_

Pansy would have sworn before that moment that a scream couldn’t possibly sound _breathy_. But there it was: a breathy scream. “Love... Lovegood? Is that you?”

“AH!”

Luna reached for the heavy bronze door knob. “Luna?” The knob turned surprisingly easily; the door pushed open. “Luna? Are you... okay?”

A panting, sobbing sound came from the back of the flat, and Pansy nearly panicked, running back down the stairs before realizing that it was a kind of laughter. “Oh! Penthesilia. How nice of you to come. How...lovely...”

Pansy stumbled forward into the flat; the same glaciers of weird detritus flowing off of the dark, oak furniture. The big, dark oriental rug where Luna had shagged Pansy back to life, that Pansy had sworn as they lay there must have been a flying carpet because...

But a cloying, odd scent that made the hair on the backs of Penthesilia Parkinson’s arms raise up.

A sharp intake of breath snapped Pansy back to herself.

Beneath the head of the dining table was a black lump.

“Luna?”

The lump groaned. Not black. Midnight blue. Unspeakable.

As Pansy willed her body to leave the building, her feet moved her forward. “Luna? Is that...? Are you... okay?” _What kind of Slytherin are you, Parkinson?_ “Oi? Lovegood?”

The lump groaned again. “Penthe—AHHHH!”

“Love... good?” Pansy remembered Luna’s face, sex-flushed, as she had described watching her mother’s last moments. “You’re not... dying, are you?”

“I... hope... not.” Luna gave another groan and then went rigid, like an overinflated Quaffle, though Pansy wasn’t sure what brought that image to mind. Standing there, uncertain what to do or how to help, Pansy watched Luna go through a kind of convulsion for over a minute. She was just at the point of Flooing St Mungo’s when she remembered that Lovegood had no working Floo.

The fit passed. A mass of blonde rose from the lump of blue: stringy, sweat-clumped. Luna’s face appeared—at least, it looked like Luna’s. But this face wasn’t pale at all—it was red, sweaty and puffy. “Hope... not. Perhaps...”

“Did... did you eat something?”

The pale blue eyes—which looked just as odd and astonishing on this somewhat transformed face—blinked several times. “At some point, most likely.”

“No, I meant—”

“Forty weeks, you see. I assumed that because I knew the initial date so precisely, the delivery date should be simple enough to determine.”

“Delivery?” _What in Merlin’s name...?_

“Not due until the day after tomorrow. Don’t know how...”

“Due? What’s due? Who’s coming?”

Luna blinked again, and winced.

 _Bloody hell._ “Are you... having a baby?”

Another, longer blink. “I certainly hope so.”

“ _SHITE!_ ” Pansy began to scan the room manically, as if expecting a Healer to pop out of one of the mounds of ivory dildos and sheets of ancient, vaguely pornographic parchment piled on the dining table. “Shouldn’t you be in hospital?”

“As I... said. Tomorrow.”

“I, uh, think you might want to go a bit sooner.”

“Oh, yes, that would seem to be an excellent idea... but—” Luna started to darken; her eyes closed, her head dropped and she curled back in upon herself. “ _HELP! ME! UP!_ ” One trebling, pink-mottled hand rose from the lump that Luna had once again become.

Pansy took the hand, knowing that her fear that Lovegood’s condition was somehow catching was beyond irrational. “You sure you—”

The hand gripped Pansy’s with surprising ferocity. The other shot out, and Luna began to claw her way up Pansy’s arm. “ _HELP ME UP! HAVE TO...!_ ” She let out a wordless cry, her arms threw themselves around Pansy’s neck, almost pulling Pansy to the floor.

 _Had a lot of fun on that floor last time,_ Pansy found herself thinking, even as she tried desperately to support Lovegood’s weight, which was far greater than Pansy remembered—Pansy, who had a very clear recollection of just what it felt like to have Luna’s full weight bearing down on her. Struggling to keep from being pulled down herself, she felt Luna’s wet, warm cheek slide against her neck, felt a hard, round belly press against her own. Felt moisture that Pansy wished to believe was sweat dripping from Lovegood’s robes onto Pansy’s tight-encased shin. “Want...? Want me to take you to St Mungo’s?”

Luna began to weep into Pansy’s clavicle. “ _CAN’T. MOVE...._ ”

“I... I could go get—”

“ _DON’T LEAVE ME! PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T!_ ” The weeping became what Pansy would normally have identified as godawful bawling; snot and tears were running down the front of Pansy’s blouse.

“Uh... Yeah, but...” No Floo. Can’t Apparate a pregnant woman for fear of Splinching the infant—more than one of Pansy’s school chums had used that technique for getting rid of unwanted pregnancies when the ingredients for a Day-After Potion weren’t at hand. Portkeys were supposed to be okay, though Pansy wasn’t sure about using one to transport someone in the middle of labor; the bloody things made her vomit under the best of circumstances. “I could... get Bones from next—”

“ _GONE. HOLIDAY. TO AVALON_. _AHH!_ ” Luna’s belly seemed to be pulling the rest of her toward it—head bowing, knees buckling—and Pansy found herself almost collapsing under Lovegood’s full weight.

 _Well,_ thought Pansy _, not going to be carrying the bloody heifer anywhere, that’s for bloody sure._ Overwhelmed by the sobs, by the weight, by the sense of responsibility, Pansy stood as solidly as she was capable of doing.

Luna gave a gasp and then collapsed limply against Pansy. “Oh. Merlin. Oh, Penthesilia. Please...”

“Right,” Pansy murmured, her hand patting Lovegood’s back as delicately as she could. “Not going, I, uh, promise.” She tried looking into the other rooms. No owl. No... “Your bird, the raven, where is it?”

Lovegood gave a weak laugh that cooled the damp front of Pansy’s blouse. “Sent Huggin... to get them... while ago... Don’t know...”

Well, at least that meant that there should be Healers on the way, which was good—though why they hadn’t already got there was beyond Pansy. “Maybe... Maybe we can get you onto your bed?”

“No! No! Want... here. Hold me. Here.”

“O... kay.” Pansy looked down. They had somehow drifted ten feet to the ancient oriental where they’d fucked the previous autumn. Bloody marvelous. Feeling Luna’s head lift away from her chest, Pansy glanced into the blue eyes, which were heavy-lidded, almost sleepy. “Okay.”

“Thank you, Pansy, oh, thank you...” Luna collapsed back against Pansy’s relatively unpadded chest, all but dead weight. “So pleased that you’re...” Luna let out a long sigh.

“Yeah. Ta. Great.” The problem was that it was taking all of Pansy’s strength just to keep Luna upright; she was afraid to move, lest—

Pansy could feel Luna grimace against Pansy’s shoulder, could hear a subvocal groan as the next round of convulsions rolled in."Piffle!"

“L-luna? I’ve, you know, never been at a, you know, _birth_.”

Luna’s arms tightened around Pansy, fingernails digging into Pansy’s shoulder blades. “Me. Either,” grunted Luna through a jaw clamped shut.

And then the next contraction was upon her, and both women held on for all that they were worth.

As the storm washed over and Pansy abandoned her body to the chore of keeping them both from crashing to the ground, she found herself thinking about the night they’d spent on that carpet. Not about the lovely bits, which she’d been replaying in her little mental Muggle cinema for the past six months—no, she was thinking about the mystery that had been revealed to her that night: the soft miracle of another woman’s body. The swell of white breast and belly, of hip...

Once that body, which was rather larger than it had been back then, had been released from its spams, it collapsed limply against Pansy’s once again, and the two women gasped for breath. Once she felt capable of speaking again, Pansy blinked the sweat out of her vision. “Luna? You were... pregnant? That night?”

“What night?”

“Night I was here.”

“Oh.” Luna slumped in Pansy’s hold, and for a moment Pansy thought the blonde had passed out, but then she nodded flaccidly. “Thought you knew. Thought... was obvious.”

“No.”

Luna smiled, her red face relaxed as it had been. “Harry. Ginny didn’t either. Realize.”

“Harry? Ginny?” Pansy stared down at her one-time lover and tried to work out what the hell she was on about, when the couple in question appeared as if conjured in a bad panto.

“Luna!” barked Potter from the doorway. He and his not-wife sprinted into the flat, bringing with them a scent of pine and sweat. “What are you still doing here?”

“Hullo. Harry. Ginn...” Luna’s head fell forward once again against Pansy’s breast, and suddenly, instead of feeling intimate and a bit weird, it felt beyond uncomfortable.

“Come on, Loony,” said Weasley, leaning in to kiss the blonde on the cheek as she took hold of one of Lovegood’s forearms. “Let’s get you to—”

“NO!” screamed Luna as the next contraction hit,“ _HEEERE!_ ”

Pansy gasped as Lovegood began to use her once more like a longbow. Potter and Weasley shared some sort of _look,_ and Pansy was only relieved when Potter nodded and said, “Let us help.”

Looking down into Luna’s eyes, Pansy nodded. “Please.”

“ _PLEASE!”_ echoed Luna, letting out a howl that made Pansy’s heart skip.

: :

Two hours later, and Potter was finally Levitating a blissfully relaxed, somewhat cleaned-up Luna to her bed. Pansy was Levitating the little Mandrake that Luna had, miraculously, produced from her body, while Ginny ran her wand over the baby, siphoning off various fluids, cleansing away various substances whose nature Pansy preferred not to consider, performing various tests that Pansy was vaguely familiar with from sessions scanning through the Midwifery and Neonatal Healing section at Flourish and Blotts. Since one never knew. As the redhead’s wand blinked green, green, and green again, Pansy let out a relieved breath that was echoed by Ginny. The tiny black-and-blonde haired puppet was wriggling, beginning to squeeze its little face toward crying, but as Pansy renewed the Warming Charm on, it—she—relaxed, peeing on the carpet. The Weaslette mopped up the wet with the long sleeves of her flying robes.

“So. Came here straight from a match, did you?”

Weasley blinked, then smiled and shrugged. “You?”

“I... just happened by.”

“Uh-huh.” Brown eyes flashed with dangerous humor. “Loony’s told us about you and her.”

Eyes zeroing back in on the baby, Pansy fought against the heavy weight that that statement lodged in her gut. “And she told...” Pansy paused, unsure whether her counterthrust was well-advised or not. Then the baby opened her eyes. Yes, Pansy hadn’t imagined it: green. Emerald. “She told me about you and her and The Boy Who Got Very Lucky.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, but the smile broadened in what Pansy recognized as a kind of respect.

The baby began to squeak, screwing up its face once more. 

Ginny conjured a blanket around her, then lowered her wand and held her hands beneath the little bundle.

Pansy reluctantly released the Levitation and Warming charms, and the baby—Potter and Lovegood’s baby—lowered into Weasley’s hands.

“Come on,” said Ginny, her eyes wide, focused on the child as they both stood. “Let’s bring her in to her mum.”

Pansy nodded, her tongue suddenly strangely heavy. _Mum..._ As they approached the bed, Harry was stroking Luna’s forehead, but Lovegood had eyes only for the infant. Ginny held it out to her, and the baby seemed to sense its mother’s presence—or possibly just the proximity of supper, as it seemed to reach out with its rubbery, tiny lips. Luna took the infant and lifted it to her breast.

Pansy found herself staring at the sight. Found a different kind of weight pushing on her throat, her chest. She blinked moisture from her eyes. Looking up, she saw that Harry and Ginny were likewise gobsmacked. Potter’s face was slack, his mouth open, tears dripping from the upper lip.

“So,” whispered Pansy after a long while, “what you going to name her?”

Luna looked up as if surprised that they were all still there. “Hecate, I think.”

“Hecate?” asked Weasley.

“Happy birthday, Hecate,” said Potter, sounding thoroughly cracked.

“Was your mother’s name Diana?” Pansy found herself asking.

“Yes,” answered Luna, her eyes already lost back in the baby, who was already snoozing at Luna’s swollen nipple.

They all joined her gaze. Watched Luna’s fingers stroking through black hair streaked with blonde.

After some time, Weasley cleared her throat. Luna smiled brilliantly, leaning forward and kissing Ginny on the lips. She turns and gives Harry Potter a buss that looks to Pansy’s eye every bit as warm.

Pansy begins to back out of the room.

“Penthesilia.” Luna is sitting between the Golden Couple, who are both gazing down at her, sappy-faced. Luna holds her free hand out toward Pansy, who feels herself moving back toward the bed.

Stronger than the Imperius, this compulsion. What?

Pansy reached out to shake her employer’s hand. Her lover’s. Her liberator’s.

Luna Lovegood pulled Pansy in, kissing her deeply and long. Pansy could feel the infant’s form between their breasts. “Thank you,” she mumbled into Pansy’s mouth. “Thank you, Penthesilia.”

Heat suffused Pansy’s head, her body. When the kiss finally ended she felt as if she were floating next to the bed. “Welcome.”

Lovegood’s smile seemed to stretch from yesterday to tomorrow. “The elves tell me that Daphne is very nice. You should invite her to stay.” She turned to the slack-faced pair beside her. “I rather like Penthesilia as a middle name, don’t you?”

: :

Pansy wandered up to the master bedroom. Daphne was wearing a white silk negligee that was just a bit too small for her—it probably belonged originally to the ever-slender Narcissa—but that displayed Daphne’s bounty delectably. She was fast asleep atop the covers, which she had apparently scattered with white rose petals.

Grinning, giddy, Pansy climbed onto the bed with her inamorata and began to kiss her way up the sheathed flesh that so pleased her. As she reached a round thigh, Daphne’s breath deepened and she flopped onto her back.

Pansy continued to kiss her way up along smooth, soft, white curves. When she began working her way down her lover’s belly—small, really—a groan arose. “You talk to Lovegood?”

Pansy nodded, her chin brushing Daphne’s pubis.

“And...?

“Yes.” Pansy kissed the outline of Daphne’s silk-encased sex.

“Took you so long?” gasped Daphne as gooseflesh showed through the silk. “Smell funny...”

Working the skirts of negligee up, so that Pansy could share the joy. “What do you think,” she asked, “about babies?”


End file.
